Not only would I end up in court if I vaped in public, but if a neighbour had a gripe against me, the cops could roll up on my front door with a search warrant and confiscate my reos. Possibly march me away. I kid you not.
Remember this one? I downloaded it years ago from the website of a vape store that was closing down. Bit of vaping history. Long but worth checking out.
They came screaming across the highway. The VPF cycles sped along in attack formation, their motors reverberating sounds like maddened bees or starved babies, their wails hungry, animal. With twitchy, violent lurches, the cycles swung through turnoffs, roads, and finally came to rest at the curb of a boarded, derelict home.
The boots hit the asphalt, the cement, the browned grass, and finally the door.
Bits of lock and splintered wood rained into the foyer. Mag-lights beamed their milk-blue flutter on the cracked drywall as the VPC stomped through, “clearing” room after unlit room. Black-gloved hands formed signals and beckons while officers upturned and tore furniture.
“Nothing,” said one.
“They’re in here,” said their leader. “I can smell the banana flavoring.”
The scent led them to a dirty laundry room. A one-eyed raccoon burst from the dryer when they overturned it, hissing. The creature was euthanized with machine efficiency. Beneath a clay-colored rug, a loose tile was discovered. The tile was edged and lifted, unearthing a torrent of tropical banana fragrance from below.
A tear-gas canister was tossed into the darkness, followed by a clunk and an angry, chemical hiss. The sound of glass shattering. Muted, hurried voices. Then coughing, wailing, and silence.
* * *
Jessup and Clive awoke on their respective couches when the mail-slot clapped. Jessup blinked himself conscious, and groped for his mod. He rose from the couch while he inhaled the contraband, and lumbered zig-zaggedly to the day’s newspaper, crisp in its cellophane baggie.
A half-page headline read, “VPC SEIZES MASSIVE VAPE LAB- 20 GALLONS SUBMITTED TO EVIDENCE.” Jessup unfolded the paper to reveal a foot-high photo of three bootleggers bound and wincing beneath VPC boots, with their commander hoisting a rifle. An active cigarette made the commander’s face glow.
“Jesus,” said Jessup. “Another bust.”
Clive had unlidded his atomizer, and dripped juice from a recycled honey bear bottle. “How much?”
“Twenty gallons,” said Jessup. “That’s about the end of the Sub-Ohm Saints. The whole operation just got decapitated.”
Jessup tossed Clive the paper. It flapped against his chest and winged to the floor. Clive squinted bleary-eyed and pawed it to his eyes. “Dalton, Melvin, and Charlie,” he said. “There goes the competition…”
Jessup turned. “It’s more than that.”
“We’re turning a cozy little profit, here,” said Clive. “So long as we can fill their demand, we’ll more than double our cash flow! Good riddance, I say.”
“But how long before
we get hog-tied and crucified?” said Jessup. “We’re walking corpses if we don’t change up. The VPC is tapping phones, K-9’s are sniffing around, and any old snitch gets hooked up if they can finger us to the bulls. We’re dead men unless we cut our losses and quit slinging juice.”
Clive cut across the den and lifted yesterday’s coffee pot to his lips. After three glugs, he said, “We gotta change up.”
“We already ‘changed up,’ Clive.” Jessup fired his mod. “Three times already. VPC is getting smarter. We can’t just sling out of our cars on pizza delivery runs. No more basements. No more overpasses. We can’t travel with the juice. We can’t text, call, or pass it off in bathrooms at bars. The money ain’t what it used to be, and it’s getting riskier every day we mix.” Jessup took a long draw. “We’re finished, man. We gotta shut down the speakeasy.”
Clive vaped in silence. He blew no O’s.
“I say we shut down. We gotta somehow get rid of the VG, the PG, vats, bottles, all the flavoring, not to mention the nic… We can sell off the last couple of batches, but after that, we’re done, man. Done.”
Clive looked up. “We sell the lab?” He stood up. “All that hard work, down the drain?” He stepped towards Jessup. “Just cut our losses, sell at less than fifty percent to God-knows-who, and go back to nine-to-five life?”
Clive shoved Jessup against the door. “The cast is set. If we’re as doomed as our buyers, and we are, what’s to stop them from ratting for reduced sentence? Who’s gonna keep tight lips and opt out of the bounty? There ain’t a juicer alive that wouldn’t sell us out for 10 G’s.”
Jessup clutched his mod. His knuckles were white.
Clive turned and walked back towards the kitchen. “Until the last nail hits the coffin, I’m in this.” Clive switched out his battery. “This is more than money. This is idealism.” Clive hit his mod. “We’ve been slinging juice and mods since 2021. That’s twelve
years of criminal vape export. I dunno about you, but I’d rather rot in a jail cell with a clean conscience than close up shop and nine-to-five it.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Jessup. “We can’t get all martyr about this, we gotta use our heads. C’mon, man, I’m tired of being paranoid. I’m losing sleep.”
“Alright,” said Clive. “I get it. Here’s what we do: we can sell your share. Fifty-fifty. Half the lab equipment, materials, whatever. I’m gonna keep slinging.”
Jessup nodded.
“There’s just one thing,” Clive redripped. “You gotta help me sell the last batch. One big score. Last hurrah. Then you can buy a suit and work for Marlboro for all I care.”
The afternoon was a sweaty affair, in which Clive and Jessup boxed and disassembled half of their operation. The two partners said little as jugs, bottles, titration tools, and beakers were torn down and taped away with packing peanuts. That very silence gave way to the slow-dawning racket of motorbikes.